


Observe

by janto321 (FaceofMer)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Feels, First Kiss, First Time, Lies, M/M, No Dialogue, Observant John, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-10 01:05:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4371290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceofMer/pseuds/janto321
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John observes. And John lies to himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Observe

Everyone thinks that it's only Sherlock that observes. That the detective is the one that sees the details. And it is true that Sherlock often notices things others do not. 

But John is a doctor and he has to be able to see things. His mind may not work as fast, and he may not put two and two together to make five the way Sherlock can. But he observes. 

And John especially observes Sherlock. He knows by the set of his shoulders if he slept the night before. He knows by the sound of his footsteps if he's lost in thought. He's aware that Sherlock is in love with him. 

Neither of them speak of it. The longing and the electricity hangs heavily between them. John is certain he's not gay. He's lied to himself for a long time. He lies to himself now. 

One stormy afternoon, when lightning strikes near the tumbledown cottage they’re investigating, the lies they’ve so carefully built up shatter between one breath and another. Glass breaks, the lamp goes out and John feels the heat of Sherlock pressed against him.

Resolve falling to dust, John pulls Sherlock down for a brutal kiss, sheltered by the dark, by the sound of downpour against ancient walls. Sherlock kisses back, just as hungry, desperate. 

They fall to the ground in a thunderclap, pushing clothes just far enough aside to get at what they need. John devours Sherlock's small cries as his spit-slick fingers press inside. Sherlock is hot, tight, begging for more. 

John moves, pushing up Sherlock’s knees, pressing against him, seeking entrance. Sherlock moans and clings to him, trying to push him in deep, hard. But even in the heat of the moment John won’t hurt him and he takes his time, until the hasty rush turns into slow lovemaking.

As the rain slacks off outside, they lie in one another’s arms, silent, hearts still racing together. Neither of them move for a long time. It’s John that finally pulls away first, kissing Sherlock tenderly, as if it were the first time, the last time. He finds his feet and adjusts his clothes, not looking at Sherlock, knowing that if he does he’ll be lost.

They return to London and go on as if nothing happened. It’s easier here, in the bustle of the city, in the hue and cry of cases, in the thrill of the chase, in the warmth of victory.

Late one night, Sherlock comes to John. There seems to be nothing special about the day or the hour, but John welcomes him into his arms without hesitation. Again they make love, but by the time John wakes in the morning, Sherlock is gone from his bed.

Neither of them mention this time either, and three days later, Sherlock Holmes is dead.

John is devastated, wounded deeper then he would ever admit. He swallows his grief and his pain the way he swallowed his love and desire. His silences grow longer. But it’s in his bones to survive, and so he does, walking through his days, leaving Baker Street, trying to ignore the bitter taste of regret that lingers on his tongue.

If nothing else, John Watson is good at lying to himself. After a while, he tells himself he never meant that much to Sherlock, that he only imagined things. He starts to date again (only woman, of course), and if quite of a few of them have dark hair and light eyes, well that’s just an odd coincidence.

Mary is different than the others, blonde, small, not at all his usual type. With her he can pretend to fall in love, pretend that this is the course his life should take. Some part of him knows that it’s all built on lies, but she seems willing to accept what he can give. Late some nights, lying in bed together, he thinks he sees lies in her eyes too.

But they never speak of it, never break the tacit agreement.

Then, quite suddenly, Sherlock crashes into his life again. John lashes out, bitterness turned to anger, but it cannot last. He’s as drawn to Sherlock as a moth to a flame. John observes, as he always does, knows that Sherlock’s feelings have only deepened with time. He continues with the wedding anyway, telling himself there’s room for both in his life, that he loves only Mary.

On the night before his wedding the lies come crashing down. As he drinks with Sherlock, he realizes he’s laughing more freely then he has in years. That his life feels right only with Sherlock by his side. When he looks into Sherlock’s eyes he sees only honesty, only love. Whatever lies Sherlock has been telling, they’ve only been for John’s sake.

John snogs him in the back of a cab, hidden from the world, hands fisting his coat as if he would cling to him forever.

They fall asleep on the stairs and the moment is lost. The rest of the night is a blurred disaster. But somehow waking up in a cell is okay if he’s by Sherlock’s side. They go on to the wedding, and again, silence is kept.

John listens to Sherlock’s speech, knows with an ache in his heart that he married the wrong person. But there are too many years, too many lies, to back out of it now.

It’s Mary that gives him the out. She murders Sherlock. John is strangely unsurprised when the truth comes crashing down. He’s wounded, angry. Baby or not, he leaves, moves back into Baker Street. He and Sherlock scheme and plan and he knows that come Christmas he’ll be free.

A week after their plans are finalized, John comes to Sherlock’s bed. He’s tired, so tired, of everything. The first night they only sleep in the same bed. Two days later they make love. John feels his heart start to heal. 

He stops telling himself lies. The morning after they make love he’s looking at Sherlock in their kitchen, soft light filtering through his hair. John takes his hand, meets his eyes, and declares his love.

Sherlock stands in shock a long moment, before gathering John in his arms, peppering him with kisses and responding in kind. They don’t even make love that day, just spend it on the sofa in one another’s embrace, finally talking, confessing, opening to one another the way they should have from the beginning.

There are still things that must be done, but John knows they can face them, accept the truth. All he needs to do is observe.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m apparently a ball of mush on my period.
> 
> Thank you to humshappily and phipiophosum475
> 
> Come visit me on tumblr at [merindab.tumblr.com](http://merindab.tumblr.com)


End file.
